


Anything But Mine

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Time Marches On [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Vessels, First Time, Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M, Season/Series 01, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 03:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I have… unfinished business.” A pause. “God, that makes me sound like a douche.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Don’t tell me, you’re chasing the guy that killed Bambi’s mom?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Ha ha, funny.” Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s… personal. Sorry.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Mysterious, I like that.”</i>
</p><p>Wherein Dean meets a familiar stranger on the pier on his last day in Los Angeles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything But Mine

If it weren’t for the sun beaming through the motel windows – opened for who knew what reason – and Sam making a racket on the other side of the room, he would have stayed in bed for the majority of the day, resting in the softest sheets he had ever had the fortune to feel, pillows perfectly cushioning his head. He couldn't even feel the gun smothered underneath for the first time in a long while. Quiet, calm – just what the city miles away wasn't. They were only there for a few days; he had no intention to see the sights or meet with the locals unless they related to the case.

Los Angeles was everything and nothing like the media portrayed it – cold attitudes in constant motion, flocking the sidewalks amongst the palms and dry heat. Stars dotted their feet for miles; the heat of summer warmed their skin, with it bringing the promise of false hopes and dying dreams, tempting whoever would listen. Cities were supposed to bring with them the sense of companionship, yet with millions at their sides, he felt alone, singled out. The eyes of the populous were watching, scrutinizing. Waiting to see what they were capable of, what they could make of themselves. Waiting for them to fail.

Claustrophobic was another word Dean could describe it as. Santa Monica was infinitely better, giving them a minute to calm their frayed nerves, to _breathe_. Sunset Boulevard brought them to the beach as the sun fell days before, right as the crowds were winding down and cars packed onto the Pacific Coast Highway, headed towards Malibu or Manhattan Beach, or back into the City of Angels itself. What a city, indeed. Ocean View Hotel was just barely in their price range, considering it was one of the _cheaper_ options on the immediate strip, but they made due. Sometimes winning on scratch-offs was worth it. In this case, three grand and a week to themselves.

Until Sam found a case. Something about suspicious drownings and bodies washing up by LAX, originally thought to be shark attacks by the media. Three days, several family interviews and a dispatched water wraith later, Dean was sprawled out in cotton sheets, drooling into the expensive comforter with no intentions of moving for the foreseeable future. The gash over his eyebrow throbbed every few minutes, stitches twinging the still-swollen skin. An ice pack would probably do him good. Or another hour of sleep, whichever came first.

In the background, Sam was saying something about walking up to the library and that he would be back late. Though, ‘library’ was synonymous with the daughter of one of the women they had saved the day prior. They were cute together, he had to admit. He didn't fight it, instead waving his brother off and curling into the warmth of the bed, letting the ocean breeze wash over him with every gust of wind. _We could stay here_ , he considered. _We could do what we wanted. We could be free._

But freedom came at a price. The thought alone had him stretching aching limbs and emerging from his cocoon, bare feet stepping onto white carpet. The palm frond clock on the wall read 11:46. What would he do today? The pier was a good idea. Maybe a decent walk would put him in lighter spirits. Tomorrow, they would head out to wherever the papers took them, to whoever called and needed their services. They couldn't linger forever.

_Just one day._

A run-through of his morning routine, one worn T-shirt and faded jeans later, he left the Impala parked in the connecting lot and headed down to the shoreline, hands in his pockets, keeping his wandering gaze mostly to himself. Meeting someone was the last thing on his mind; it would only leave him with a memory he would long to recreate, no matter who it was with. That didn't stop the bikini-clad girls from winking and giggling as they passed and a lone boy, at least two years younger and a full few inches taller, from chatting him up and giving him a quick peck before joining his friends down the way. He continued his march with a reddened tinge to his cheeks, wondering what _else_ could happen.

Families and teenagers wandered the pier and its shops; in the near distance, shouts and screams could be heard from the roller coaster. The ferris wheel began to round after loading to capacity, whining all the way. On the shore, a yoga class was wrapping up, women and men in tight clothing rolling up their mats and walking up the sand towards their cars. Arcade games pinged; seagulls sounded overhead. At his side, three barefooted boys stomped on the boardwalk past a booth selling shirts and another with a man doing caricatures, running down the stairs towards the shore.

What he wouldn't give to join them.

Sun high in the clear sky, he secluded himself in a vacant part of the pier, green eyes locked on a passing sailboat as he leaned against the railing, toying with the paper from his long-since eaten ice cream cone. Trashing it was the safer option, yet he still let it drop into the waters below, floating off towards the coast alongside a discarded bottle. Wind ruffled his hair playfully, the cool breeze tickled the back of his neck, contradicting the sweat that beaded there. Weird.

At his back, a set of footsteps descended the few stairs to his hideaway, elbows setting into the wood at his left side. Another man joined him, eerily violating his personal space, and he had half the mind to tell him to back off when he got a good look at him. Both sides of his head were shaved close, leaving him with enough hair at the top to spike a few good inches high, the blue of the strands bleeding into the streaks of black at his roots. Ears pierced beyond all comprehension, he was more attracted to the few that dotted the pale skin of his lips. He wondered what they would feel like against his own, and he found himself wetting them out of habit. He had no noticeable tattoos on his tanned arms, tank top tight to his form, black jeans riding low on his hips in a way that should have been illegal.

He was… _beautiful_. But it was the eyes that had him hooked. Blue as the sky above their heads, yet familiar. Like he had _seen_ them before. “So what’s a pretty thing like you doing by yourself?” the stranger asked him, obviously catching on to his blatant staring. His right eyebrow was pierced as well, the spiked barbell gleaming in the daylight. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Fighting the flush creeping up his neck, Dean looked towards the ocean; the boat had moved on, replaced by the cresting of dolphins. “Leaving for home tonight,” he replied, voice small. There was no logical reason for him to be this _shy_ ; he was normally outgoing, a regular people person. Now, he could barely even look the guy in the _eye_.

“That’s too bad,” the stranger mused. “Where’re you headed?”

That was the question he had been asking himself since they woke up that morning. Maybe Oregon, maybe the east coast. Anywhere but there. “Kansas,” he decided on. It was safe territory; it was his home state. The one place he could always fall back to in times of doubt, despite what it represented. There was no other place on earth he could call _home_ , unless he counted the backseat of his car.

The man hummed noncommittally, touching the tips of his fingers together over the edge of the railing. “College boy?”

“Nah, that’s my brother.” And it wasn’t _totally_ a lie. It had only been a few months since he dragged him away from Stanford. Maybe he could go back soon if plans worked out. “I’m… on the road, mostly.”

“You look the type.” Those same fingers drifted over the freckled skin of his arm, shivers crawling through his veins, warming some part of him he long since thought was dormant. “Strong, rugged… You got a girl?” He shook his head. “Boy?” Same answer. “Would you like to?”

“…Huh?”

“For the day.” The man cupped his shoulder playfully, the warmth of his palm startling him. “You’re in Los Angeles. What have you already seen?”

Dean rattled off a list of things he and Sam did while they weren’t driving between cliffside estates and suburban bungalows. They walked through Hollywood and up and down the shops on Sunset, drove through the numerous skyscrapers at the city’s heart, passed the studio lots in Burbank – they hadn't really left the _car_. “It’s not much, I know.”

“Have you been to the beach?” He told him no. “We could make a date of it. I show you around and we’ll see where it goes from there. How does that sound?”

Despite the assuredness of his voice, his face bore insecurity, probably fearing rejection. He didn't have the heart to tell him no. He didn't want to get attached; he was leaving tomorrow morning, he didn’t need to leave his heart with some guy he might never see again. There were things in the world Dean wouldn't allow himself – love was at the top of the list. But that didn't stop him from sheepishly nodding his assent, allowing the stranger to take his hand, twining their fingers together; their rings clinked, loud amid the noise of civilization surrounding them.

“So what’s your name?” he asked, beginning to tug Dean up the three steps and back into the crowds, keeping him close.

Every ingrained instinct told him to give a fake name; he could be a face in the wind that way, never having existed in either of their minds. “…It’s Dean,” he confessed, despite his best interests. Everyone knew him by a false identity; he wanted to be remembered, even if it hurt both in the process.

The stranger smiled, bumping their shoulders. “You can call me Chris.”

They were simple names, Dean and Chris. Somehow, it sounded right. Linked the entire way, Chris took him through the stalls of the pier and to the arcade, losing a few dollars in change to machines they both swore were rigged to bilk their wallets for everything they had. He had another fourty in cash, originally from the stash he earned back in Lexington from a skeevy pool hall and equally seedy patrons. Ten went to the machines.

Chris offered to pay for lunch at a burger joint nearby. He didn't have much of a story, other than having a strict mother and absent father, and that he had lived in Glendale for the past five years. On the weekends he would take his ’69 Camaro and drive up and down Route One until the sun began to set, sometimes reaching the border, on one instance stopping in San Francisco for the night. They were both loners and had a fascination with cars; the longer he spent with him, the more they had in common. And it scared him.

“So other than driving, what do you do?” Chris asked, thumbing the label of his beer. “I take it you don’t work?”

He shook his head. “I, uh… I’m a hunter.”

It wasn’t the most _logical_ statement to make, but apparently Chris took it more literal. “Interesting. Big game?”

“Yeah.” _Understatement_. “My dad, he… kinda got me into it, I guess. It’s all I’ve ever done.” _And all I know how to do_.

Chris hummed. “But you don’t like it.” Dean’s lack of a response was enough of an answer for him. “You don’t have to follow in his footsteps, you know. You can do your own thing. You could stay here, start your life over.”

With a sigh, he mumbled, “I really wish I could.” Shoulders slumped, he finished the last of his drink and set it aside, rubbing the back of his neck in overwhelming nervousness. What if he said too much? “I have… unfinished business.” A pause. “ _God_ , that makes me sound like a douche.”

Instead of the scowl he anticipated, Chris laughed, once. “Don’t tell me, you’re chasing the guy that killed Bambi’s mom?”

“Ha ha, funny.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s… personal. Sorry.”

“Mysterious,” Chris cooed, batting his eyes. Dean snorted. “I like that.”

The aquarium beneath the carousel was next, followed by a suggested bike ride along the flat trails of sidewalks up and down the beachfront. Dean replied that he didn’t know how. Chris didn’t pity him as expected, instead proceeding to drag him onto the ferris wheel, holding his hand the entire time. His skin was soft, uncallused, not a trace of blood on them; he probably hadn’t worked a day in his life. Yet the man took pleasure in touching his own, smoothing his fingers over the worn ridges like he could heal the damage they had inflicted over the years. He couldn't repent for the things he had done, yet with him, he felt like he could be whole again.

They spent an hour on the beach just wading in the frigid waters of the Pacific, Chris holding threadbare converses in his hand, allowing the sand to squish between his toes. He looked serene; for all Dean knew, he could have been communing with nature. His own pants were rolled up to his knees, allowing the waves to caress his skin in their cold embrace, beckoning him to go out further. He denied the unspoken request; who knew what was out there? Didn’t sharks live that far south? He had no intentions of becoming fish food; Chris chuckled when he told him so.

With the sun beginning to drift lower in the sky, Chris mentioned something about a local band playing at Rusty’s within the hour. He only had to use half of his cash to get them in; the crowd inside was near his age or even younger, all crowding around the stage in the dimly lit room, waiting for the entertainment to begin. The first band serenaded the masses with their rendition of jazz-fusion hits, some songs distantly familiar, some immediately identifiable within the first few seconds. Chris enjoyed it for the sound and the atmosphere, looking all the part of the scene around them. Dean found himself mouthing along to some of the tunes.

The second set was more laid back, slower, prompting come of the couples to dance while others sat at the scattered tables, either chatting amongst their parties or listening to the sounds pouring through the airwaves. “You wanna dance?” Chris asked, eyes half lidded, enraptured with the sounds. Dean agreed timidly, joining his date out on the floor, draping his arms around the man’s waist, Chris’ clasped around his neck. They were ignored, fitting in with the masses; if he danced with a guy _anywhere_ else, he would never have heard the end of it, maybe even been run out of town. But it was different here. Despite the loneliness of the city, he felt like he belonged.

Whether it was with Chris or not, he couldn't yet tell. But _damn_ , he wanted to try.

Dean kissed him first on a whim, face cupped in sun-warmed hands, the touch of piercings against his lips different than all those he had ever felt. And Chris kissed back just as chastely, the sensation of faint hints of stubble and lashes fluttering closed exciting him immensely. Why hadn’t he been doing this all along? It wasn’t wrong; it wasn’t the taboo he had been preached to all his life. Just… different. “Love you,” he muttered, cheeks heating at the two words he swore he could never say, even in a serious context. They both laughed low, butting foreheads. It meant nothing; he wanted it to mean something.

He asked Chris where he was staying; his reply was in the back of his car. He would head back into town tomorrow. That wasn’t acceptable. “Y’could stay with me,” Dean stated as they walked out of the venue later, joining the throng of people heading towards their cars. “I mean, if you wanted to—. My brother’s gonna be out anyway—.”

Chris stopped him with a kiss and a hand over his heart, fingers teasing the edge of his shirt collar. “I’ll go anywhere you want me to.”

They made love without rushing, the dry night air from the open patio door stinging against overheated skin, Dean’s quiet cries echoing in the empty room. It should have been shameful; his _father_ would beat him half to death if he ever found out. But it felt _right_ ; how could something so abhorred by others feel like heaven itself? They touched throughout, Chris’ hands caressing every inch of his skin available, their legs twined, bodies writhing with each thrust the man gave, unwilling to give into the inevitable release that would mean their parting. Kisses were intermittent, sparse, opting to share breaths and watch one another, never wanting to break the gaze.

He didn't want to leave. _Never_. Fingers clutched desperately to his back, Dean’s resolve broke as he came between them, sobbing openly into the man’s shoulder. Whether Chris joined him or not, he didn't know; he felt lips press to his forehead and the uncomfortable sting of him pulling out, taking a moment to tie off the condom and toss it into the bin beside Sam’s empty bed.

He wasn't one to be touched in public, but in the bedroom was an entirely different matter. Chris held him close to his chest, uncaring of the sticky mess on his stomach; Dean was too occupied with near-hysteric wails to feel the kisses to his neck, cheek, anywhere within reach. Something indeterminably warm blanketed him, soothing the hurt in his heart. The ache for what he couldn't have, the pain of the life he couldn't live. The love he couldn't receive, the love he couldn't _give_.

“Do you want to remember?”

The question didn't come as a shock; he knew what it meant. He should have known from the beginning. The eyes, _his_ eyes always gave it away. “No,” he sobbed, face buried in the shoulder of the man clutching him tight. “Make me forget, make me forget, _please_ —.”

Two fingers pressed to his forehead, a kiss given freely to his lips. “ _I’m sorry, Dean._ ”

-+-+-+-+-+-

He awoke the next morning with intermittent memories of going to the pier, but nothing else. Maybe he went back to the room and slept? That made sense; his stomach certainly confirmed that for him. The stupid palm clock on the wall read almost eight. Sam chose that time to waltz through the door, an oddly chipper smile on his face. “Someone got lucky,” Dean murmured sleepily, wiping the drool off his cheek. “Y’been out all night?”

“Yeah,” Sam hummed happily. “Looks like you never got outta bed.”

“Hey, I went _out_.” Dean waved him off. If only he could remember what he _did_. “I’m not _that_ lazy, Sammy.”

“Sure you’re not.” Sam treaded the carpet towards the patio, opening the blinds – when had they been closed? – to the rising sun. Great, _now_ he was awake. “So what’d you—?” The pause caught him off guard. “Dude, _more_?”

“More wha—.” _Oh_. On the pillow beside his head rested two medium-sized black feathers in the shape of a cross, soft to the touch, even more velvety than the others in his box.

“How many does that make?” Sam sat on the unoccupied side of the bed and took one of the feathers, bending it enough to ruffle the strands, smoothing them back down after. “Four, five?”

“Seven.” He held the other feather between his fingers, twirling it high in the air above his head. “What d’you think they are? I got a crow following me?”

“Maybe there’s an Angel watching over you.” Dean shot him a glare. “What? All I’m saying is, you’ve been attracting feathers like no tomorrow and you cling to them—.”

“Not my fault,” he huffed. “They’re just… I feel like I’m forgetting something.” _Something important_.

“Beats me.” Sam shrugged, handing him the second feather and walking back over to his duffle on the far side of the room. “So when’re we heading out? There’s a haunting in Minnesota that looks promising.”

Defeated, he rolled over towards the window, clutching the feathers to his heart, well out of Sam’s sight.

_Do you want to remember?_

_Make me forget, please—._

“Whenever you’re ready, dude.”

 

 

_And in the morning I'm leaving, making my way back to Cleveland_  
_So tonight I hope that I'll do just fine_  
_Hey, I don't see how you could ever be_  
_Anything but mine_

**Author's Note:**

> I have a very love/hate relationship with Los Angeles after having lived in Burbank for a year. I absolutely despise the city itself, but it has some places I remember vividly and actually enjoyed. Santa Monica Pier is one of them.
> 
> Inspired and based on the Kenny Chesney song.
> 
> Also, I'm currently working on a SPN/Original Work fic that's taking _forever_ to write, and I'm also working on the second part of Electron Blue. School is taking most of my time though, but they'll be posted soon. Hopefully.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
